Chapter 3

The wedding, if one could call it that, was a swift, sterile transaction conducted in a quiet, wood-paneled office at the Veridia City Hall. There were no flowers, no music, no guests. The only witnesses were Julian's lawyer, a severe-looking woman named Ms. Albright, and the bored city clerk. I wore a simple cream-colored dress I'd bought that morning, the fabric feeling cool and anonymous against my skin. Julian was in another one of his impeccably tailored dark suits.

He didn't touch me, not even to slide the plain platinum band onto my finger. He simply placed it in my palm, his gaze as remote as a distant star. The entire ceremony took less than ten minutes. I walked in as Clara Hill, a girl on the verge of ruin, and walked out as Clara Thorne, wife of one of the most powerful and enigmatic men in the city. The name felt foreign on my tongue, a costume I wasn't sure how to wear.

Back in the car, the silence was thick and heavy. The city blurred past, a watercolor of gray buildings and rain-slicked streets. Ms. Albright, from the front passenger seat, passed a leather-bound folder back to me.

"The prenuptial agreement, Mrs. Thorne," she said, the new title sounding jarring and unnatural.

I opened it. The legalese was dense, but the terms were shockingly clear. In the event of a dissolution of the marriage (to be initiated only by Julian), I would receive a settlement that would ensure I never had to worry about money again. My family's company, Hill Textiles, was to be immediately cleared of all debt and a new, interest-free line of credit extended from a subsidiary of Thorne Industries. He had already saved us. The relief was so immense it almost made me sick.

But it was the final clause, on the very last page, that made the hairs on my arms stand up. It was handwritten, an addendum in Julian's sharp, decisive script.

*Clause 17b: The wife, Clara Thorne, shall never, under any circumstances, access, inquire about, or attempt to view the sealed records, digital or physical, pertaining to the 'Phoenix Project'.*

The Phoenix Project. The name was evocative, mysterious. What could be so important that it warranted its own bizarre, non-negotiable clause in a marriage contract? It was a locked door in the center of my new life, and Julian had just handed me the one key I was forbidden to use. The mystery of my new husband deepened, the stakes of our strange arrangement suddenly feeling much higher.

"Any questions?" Julian asked, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. He was watching me, his eyes gauging my reaction.

I shook my head, closing the folder. "No. It's very... thorough."

He gave a curt nod, as if I had passed some kind of test, and turned his attention back to the window.

The car drove not to a house, but to the base of the tallest, most exclusive residential tower in Veridia. The penthouse. Of course. As we moved into the private elevator, the scent of his cologne-that sharp, clean cedar scent-seemed to fill the small space. I was acutely aware of his proximity, the sheer physical presence of him. He stood perfectly still, his hands in his pockets, a statue carved from granite and secrets.

The elevator opened directly into the apartment. My breath caught in my throat. The space was vast, a palace in the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic, god-like view of Veridia. The furniture was minimalist and modern, all clean lines and shades of gray, black, and white. It was beautiful, impressive, and as cold and impersonal as a museum. There was no clutter, no photographs, no sign that a human being actually lived here.

A massive flat-screen television, disguised as a piece of modern art on one wall, was silently flashing a news report. My eyes were drawn to the headline scrolling across the bottom.

*RIVAL CEO ARTHUR VANCE QUESTIONED IN THORNE GALA INCIDENT.*

Beneath the headline was a picture of a stern, silver-haired man. Arthur Vance. The CEO of Vance Global, Thorne Industries' biggest competitor. A known enemy of Julian's. The threat was no longer an anonymous shadow in the rafters; it had a face. And now, that face, along with the rest of the world, would know that Julian Thorne had a new wife. A new, potential vulnerability. Me.

"They are already aware of you," Julian said, following my gaze. "Which is why tonight is important. We are hosting a small, formal dinner for the board of Thorne Industries. You will be introduced."

My stomach twisted. "Tonight?"

"There's no sense in waiting," he said, walking towards a long hallway. "Your room is this way. I've had some things sent over for you to wear. We leave at seven."

He showed me to a guest suite that was larger than my entire old apartment. A walk-in closet was already filled with designer clothes, shoes, and handbags, all in my size. It was a gilded cage, and the door had just clicked shut. I felt a wave of panic, a desperate urge to run. But where would I go? Back to the life that was now ashes?

I chose a simple, elegant black dress. As I got ready, I felt like an actress preparing for a role she hadn't rehearsed. By the time I met Julian in the living room at seven, I had plastered a calm, neutral expression on my face.

He looked me over, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something-approval? surprise?-crossed his features before being suppressed. "You look acceptable," he said. It was, I was quickly learning, the highest form of praise he was capable of.

The dinner was at an exclusive private club downtown, the kind of place that didn't have a sign. The air inside smelled of old leather, woodsmoke, and power. The board members, a collection of older, formidable men and women, were already there.

Julian placed a hand on the small of my back as we entered. His touch was light, impersonal, yet it sent a shiver through me. The warmth of his palm burned through the thin fabric of my dress. It was a gesture for the audience, a claim of ownership.

"Everyone," Julian said, his voice commanding immediate silence. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Clara Thorne."

A collective, stunned silence fell over the room, followed by a murmur of polite congratulations. I smiled, nodded, and shook hands, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Then, a man I had never seen before broke away from a small group and approached us. He was in his late fifties, with Mark's familiar jawline but with eyes that were colder, harder. It was Robert Ashford. Mark's father. A senior board member at Thorne Industries.

He stopped dead a few feet away from us, his jovial expression collapsing into one of utter shock and disbelief. His eyes darted from my face to Julian's hand on my back, the pieces clicking into place with an audible clang. The woman his son had so publicly and carelessly discarded, the girl from the bankrupt family, was now married to his boss. The power dynamics in the room had not just shifted; they had been seismically overturned.

His face flushed a dangerous, mottled red. Contempt warred with a dawning horror in his eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, speechless.

Before he could recover, the doors to the private dining room burst open.

It was Mark.

His face was pale, his eyes wild and furious. He had clearly been drinking. He strode into the room, ignoring the gasps from the board members, his entire focus a laser beam of rage directed at me.

"Don't be fooled by her!" he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. He pointed a shaking finger at me, the gesture childish and ugly. The entire room fell into a dead, horrified silence. "This woman was obsessed with me for ten years! She'd do anything for a scrap of attention!"

Humiliation, hot and swift, washed over me. I felt the blood drain from my face. Every eye in the room was on me, a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

Before I could even form a response, before I could shrink away, Julian moved. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't rush. He rose slowly from his seat, his calm more terrifying than any rage I could imagine. He placed a protective hand on my shoulder, a solid, grounding weight.

He looked directly at a sputtering, hate-filled Mark.

"You're right about the ten years," Julian said, his voice like ice, slicing through the suffocating silence. Every person in the room leaned in, hanging on his next words.

"She was conducting the most thorough due diligence I've ever witnessed."

A confused frown flickered across Mark's face.

Julian's gaze was utterly merciless. "And you, Mr. Ashford," he continued, the formal address a deliberate insult, "were her first and most catastrophic failed investment."

He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod to the two security guards standing discreetly by the door.

"Remove the bad asset."

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